


The Week Alfred Went Away

by Zanganito



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Puns, Bat Family, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Horror Elements, Humor, Parody, Vacation, Zombie Batman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanganito/pseuds/Zanganito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred goes on a week-long vacation,  leaving Bruce to fend for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alfred Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Batman, DC comics does. This is a free fanfiction: I receive no money from this writing. And parody is protected under fair use.
> 
>  
> 
> .
> 
> .

Alfred was gone for one week on what he called, "a brief holiday to get out a bit, I'm sure you'll manage to survive one week by yourself, Master Bruce?", and had left on the first flight that morning for someplace with warm sunny weather, sand and palm trees.

"What does he think this is, a frat house?" Bruce grumbled into his pillow as he smashed his beeping alarm clock. One week? No-one would even realize Alfred was gone.

Bruce yawned and stumbled out of bed. He sniffed, but instead of the usual aroma of Alfred's delicious breakfast, he smelled…something burning. He realized with a slight pang that Alfred would be missed after all. Maybe just at meal times.

"Kids. Don't they have enough sense to order take-out?" Bruce ran a hand over his stubble and headed for the stairs. Once he taught his bat-protégés the wonder of how to use a phone to order food, the day would get better. He hoped.

Unfortunately for Bruce, the day was about to take a sharp turn downhill. Literally. One moment his feet were on lush thick carpet. The next moment they were on pointed sharp plastic monstrosities toy manufacturers sold to children as "legos".

"Ow! What the &)(*#!" Bruce yelled as he fell face first kathunking down the stairs.

"Father!" Damian glared down at him from the top of the stairs. "You've destroyed my fort."

"Damian, why did you have your LEGOS ON THE STAIRS?" Bruce asked.

"Obviously, that is the best strategic position for a fort," Damian explained. "They can easily see any approaching threat." He surveyed the mess scattered across the floor. "Next time I'll make sure they are armed sufficiently. Perhaps toothpicks or barbed wire would suffice."

Bruce groaned and rubbed his feet while wondering if Talia was somehow electronically transmitting evil "Torture Bruce" plots to Damian-

His stomach rumbled, interrupting his thoughts. Right. Breakfast. Bruce experimentally sniffed the air again. It smelled just as burnt as it had before, even more so now. "Uh, Damian, is someone cooking?"

Damian picked up a few legos and would have glared daggers at Bruce if he had any (but Alfred had confiscated most of his weapons before leaving) and answered, "Grayson is preparing breakfast in the kitchen. He told me I should "act my age" and construct buildings out of these legos, and then you knocked them down and created another childhood trauma, father."

Bruce had a feeling Damian was playing the sympathy card for dramatic effect. Still, he always felt guilt at not having been there for the first ten years of his son's life. "Sorry," he said gruffly. "Why don't we go see if Dick has any food ready?"

Damian huffed indignantly, but brushed past Bruce and walked toward the kitchen. "Grayson!" he yelled. "Father is inquiring about the food."

They entered the kitchen to find a giant mess. There was a half-filled mixing bowl in the sink, a charred mess in one of the skillets on the stove that at one point may have been sausages, and another skillet with partially charred eggs stuck to the bottom. The entire kitchen smelled about as appetizing as it looked.

"Here," Dick said as he set plates of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Bruce and Damian. "I had a little trouble with the stove, but I think the eggs and toast are still edible," he finished with an apologetic laugh. 'Little trouble' was an understatement. The eggs were blackened around the edges with gloopy chunks in the middle. The toast was burnt, and there were ants in the jam.

"Grayson!" Damian scolded. "These eggs are so terrible I would only feed them to my worst enemy as a torture technique. And can't you even make toast? I refuse to eat this," Damian said as he chucked the plate back into the kitchen, whizzing past Dick's head to splatter on the floor.

Bruce stood up from the table. "Damian!" he scolded. "Help Dick clean up the kitchen. I'll order breakfast."

"That's okay, I already ordered pizza," Tim yelled from the other room.

Dick looked slightly hurt that no-one wanted to eat his food, but dumped the remainder of the eggs and toast into the trash while Damian loaded the dishwasher by tossing the plates in. He chipped a few, but for the most part had excellent aim. Damian scowled as he finished, apparently miffed that he had to use his amazing League of Assassins skills for such mundane domestic tasks.

Bruce's eye twitched. Pizza for breakfast, and a disaster in the kitchen. Alfred would be appalled.

-x-

Bruce was late for work, since he had to drive back to the Manor after almost forgetting his phone. He tried not to think of how Alfred would have wordlessly slipped the phone into his hand as he left, had the butler been here. Six more days. He sighed. It would be a long week. He considered taking the rest of the week off and joining Alfred in Cartagena, but then the Manor would probably get burnt down. And Bruce had been the one to initially suggest that Alfred could use a short vacation after all his years of hard work. Surely Bruce could last one week without Alfred. The first day was probably the hardest with the initial adjustment, that was all.

-x-

When Bruce returned home, the Manor was even more of a disaster zone. There were scattered pizza boxes and legos all over the floor. It looked like they had eaten pizza for breakfast and lunch, and were planning on eating it for dinner. He needed to give Tim a lecture on proper nutrition. But at least they were eating. Bruce sighed and scraped a piece of pizza off the floor and ate it.

Then he heard shrieking and arguing from the next room.

Damian had lassoed one of Tim's legs, and was attempting to suspend him from the ceiling, and Dick was trying unsuccessfully to mediate the conflict.

"Stay out of this, Grayson!" Damian raged. "I won't allow Drake to mock me in my own home; he has to learn the consequences of his actions!"

"Damian!" Bruce yelled. "We don't hang people from the ceiling in the house!" He paused in thought for a moment. "Not allies anyway."

Damian three the rope down in disgust. "You're taking his side? Without even listening to me? Some father you are." Then he stomped angrily to his room and slammed the door.

Bruce sank into the couch and groaned, while Dick untied Tim.

"Can this day get any worse?" Bruce asked. "Never mind, don't answer that," he added quickly. Maybe he just needed a long workout. Bench-pressing and punching his special indestructible punching bag always helped him deal with stress.

-x-

Unfortunately, Bruce realized that there was no Alfred to bring them their post-workout protein shake and recovery meal _after_ they had worked out.

"I think there's some chocolate milk in the fridge," Tim suggested.

Damian reached the refrigerator first and chugged the rest of the chocolate milk, so Dick tried to make a protein shake by blending together protein powder, almonds and cashews, but it tasted terrible.

Bruce drank it anyway because he was starving by then, and it was almost time to leave for his nightly patrol.


	2. Nightwing Tells A Joke

Batman sped the Batmobile out of the Batcave, already in a foul mood. 

“Hey, can we stop at the drive-through?” asked Tim. “I’m hungry, and I didn’t get much to eat since Dami hogged all the chocolate milk.”

“We’re in the Batmobile,” Bruce rasped. “We can’t go through the drive-through.”

“I want another chocolate milk, father.”

“I want spicy chicken wings.”

“Can I get a-”

“Shut up. You can all eat when we get home,” Bruce diplomatically suggested while pounding his fist on the dashboard.

“But Pennyworth won’t have our after-duty meal prepared. Really father, it was quite short-sighted of you to allow him to take a vacation without finding a temporary replacement.”

Bruce growled, and inwardly cursed the day he had decided Alfred deserved a vacation. “Fine. We can stop and get food. But I’m not driving the Batmobile through the drive-through. I’ll park and you can walk.”

There were sounds of protest until Bruce cut them off with a classic Bat-glare.

 

\--

Twenty minutes later they all piled back into the Batmobile with their greasy food and crinkled wrappers. 

“Hey look,” Tim said as he emptied out his paper bag and got crumbs all over the seat. “I got a ninja assassin with my meal.”

Dick laughed and picked up the tiny figurine with a sword. “It looks like Damian.”

Damian started elbowing Tim in the ribs. “How dare you insult me by comparing me to a plastic figurine, Drake.”

“Why are you blaming me? I didn’t even say anything,” Tim said and shoved Damian away forcefully enough that his head thunked against the Batmobile window. Fortunately the glass was breakproof. 

“Hey, cut it out back there,” Bruce roared, as he accepted a call to his Batcommunicator. Damian shoved Tim to the front of the Batmobile, knocking Bruce’s arm and sending the communicator flying. Fortunately, Nightwing caught it, and took the call.

“What the &)(*#! did I just say about fighting in the Batmobile?” Bruce glared at Tim and Damian.

Damian glared back. “It’s illegal to text and drive, father. You were breaking the law.”

“I’m gonna be breaking something later all right,” Bruce muttered under his breath. Then he remembered the call on the Batcommunicator. “Dick, did you manage to hear the call?”

“Uh, I couldn’t hear everything, but Gordon said to make sure we checked on the large vine taking over Gotham’s Sewage Treatment plant.”

Bruce made a u-turn and pressed the gas. “Good,” he said. Something was finally going his way. Maybe after pounding a criminal into the ground, the night would feel just a little better.

Dick sat back in his seat and smiled. “Sewage Treatment Plant. Guess that means we’ll have to find the-”

Damian stopped trying to cut holes in Tim’s cape and looked up. “Grayson, don’t say it.”

“Poop-a-trator,” Dick finished, laughing at his own joke and dodging Damian’s kicks to his ribs.

Tim groaned and facepalmed.

“Pay attention,” Bruce growled while he jerked the wheel and crossed over the median onto another highway. “There’s no time for any more nonsense. Nightwing, stop making pointless jokes. Obviously Poison Ivy is our main suspect at this point. Damian, try to behave, or tomorrow night you’re going to stay home and clean the mansion.” 

“Poison Ivy, huh? Can’t she ever leaf Gotham alone?”

Damian frowned. “Grayson, please refrain from murdering the English language, it’s not amusing.”

Bruce slammed on the brakes. “What did I just say?”

“Poison Ivy is the suspect, and the Water Treatment Plant is just ahead so we need to prepare,” Tim supplied helpfully. “Oh wow, that’s a huge vine!”

And indeed it was. Gotham’s Waste Water Treatment facility stretched out in front of them, all gray buildings, huge winding pipes, and concrete tanks. The concrete was cracked in areas with deep fissures, and a large green vine grew out and around, twirling up to the top of the buildings.

“Looks like we found the root of the problem,” Nightwing quipped.

Bruce ignored the latest pun and parked the Batmobile. “I have some Roundup in the trunk. Might as well keep this simple.”

“It almost seems too easy,” Tim mused.

“Don’t be stupid, Drake. Herbicides kill plants. Or do you need to retake-”

“I meant the vine. Why would Ivy take over a Sewage Treatment Plant, and why isn’t she guarding it?”

“Never mind that,” Bruce barked. “Everyone grab a sprayer and we can finish this now.”

So they sprayed herbicide on the giant vine until it drooped and wilted. Then they heard a scream from inside.

“Our work here is done,” Batman said heroically.

Poison Ivy emerged from the building. Her red hair was dripping wet and she held a piece of wilted vine in her hand. “What have you done?”

“Defeated you again,” Batman said. “Next we’ll give you a complimentary ride to the Police Station.”

Poison Ivy stomped her feet and shrieked. “I can’t believe it. Do you have something against plants? Even when I finally get legal permission to grow my genetically modified super-filtrating vines here, YOU STILL KILL THEM ALL!”

Tim face-palmed. “Uh, Nightwing, what did Gordon say.”

“Something about checking out a vine, and we all assumed-”

“That he wanted us to get rid of it, not ‘check’ on it,” Tim groaned.

Batman called Gordon and confirmed the bad news: Poison Ivy did indeed have a contract to improve Gotham’s sewage treatment with the help of plants that were genetically modified to efficiently filter waste particles.

Then they all stood around and glumly stared at the dead vine.

“Is there anyway we can…fix it?” Batman asked.

“Yes, but the dead vine and all the sludge that’s contaminated by the herbicide has to be removed first.” Ivy’s frown turned into a malicious smirk. “Of course, if you wanted to make everything up to me, you could shovel all the sludge out of these pipes where the vine was planted.”

Batman sighed. “Robin, Nightwing, go find some shovels.”

\--

Two hours later, Batman, Robin, Red Robin, and Nightwing were covered in sludge, and the smelled like an outhouse that had been flooded, doused in herbicides, and then stored in a football team’s locker room for two weeks.

Ivy, on the other hand was enjoying the show. She had pulled up a lawn chair, had a glass of lemonade, and smirked as she watched Batman and the others grunt and struggle to shovel sludge. 

“Hey, I’m out of lemonade. Who wants to get me a refill?”

“I will.” Nightwing dropped his shovel and went to bring the spare lemonade in the Batmobile. “It’s nice to see you’re branching out into more humanitarian projects.”

Ivy winced at the pun, but accepted her lemonade.

Bruce leaned on his shovel. “You know, you could help.”

Ivy’s grin grew wider. “What, and miss all the entertainment?”

Three hours later, they all piled into the Batmobile, and Bruce headed home. “If anyone makes a joke, they’re walking.” No one said a word the entire ride home.

\---

Five miles away, the Joker turned to his hostage. “Well Frankie, I guess Batsy doesn’t value your life after all. What a shame. And I thought investment bankers were important.”

Franklin Ross struggled and pulled at the ropes that bound his hands to a chair.

“We’ll have none of that!” the Joker raged and kicked the chair out from under him. “Now where were we? I could kill you now, Frankie…” the Joker paused considering, then picked the chair back up and set it upright. “or you could help me make a huge scene that’ll be sure to get all of Gotham’s attention tomorrow. Whatya say, partner?”

“Please don’t kill me,” Franklin sobbed.

“Oh you’re so boring.” The Joker paused, trying to decide whether or not to chuck the unfortunate man off the side of the building. “But that’s okay, I’m the one who comes up with the jokes around here. Oh and it’ll be a good one tomorrow. I’m sure even a bore like you will laugh.”


	3. Time for the Joker

Alfred Pennyworth yawned and stretched in his hammock, and sipped his morning tea. It was another gorgeous, sunny day in Cartagena. The sun glinted off the impossibly blue ocean, and a warm breeze flitted through the tips of the palm trees.

  
It was no luxury hotel, but the brightly colored lime-green _hospedaje_ was comfortable enough. And the location was impeccable as well, with soft white sand on three sides and the front of the building extending on pillars over the ocean. Yes, this was what many would consider to be paradise.

  
“Hey, mister, do you want to see me feed the sharks?” Tomás asked, hauling a pail of fish scraps from the kitchen.

  
“Sure, why not?” Alfred replied. He was already here, he might as well see as many sights as possible. And sharks were rather uncommon in Gotham.

  
Tomás lifted the bucket up to the railing and poured the contents into the ocean. Almost instantly, a shiver of sharks materialized. “When you start feeding them, it starts a frenzy,” he explained.

  
“Indeed.” Alfred watched as the sharks rose up out of the water, gnashing their teeth and grasping at any bit of fish they could find. Such insatiable appetites reminded him of breakfast time at Wayne Manor.

  
 _I wonder how Master Bruce and the others are getting along,_ Alfred thought with a slight twinge of guilt.

\--

  
When Bruce woke up the next morning, he realized he still smelled like the inside of a septic tank. “Gross,” he mumbled, “why didn’t Alfred…. oh, right.” The billionaire got up to go shave, then found all his razors had mysteriously disappeared. He’d have to talk to Damian later about asking permission before using household items to create weapons.

As he went out in to the hallway, he could smell burning food and screaming voices from the kitchen. “Great.” Five more days of hell, and then Alfred was getting a renegotiated salary that paid an obscene amount of overtime in lieu of vacation time. He walked towards the stairs, careful to avoid Damian’s lego forts of death. He was just about to finish walking down the stairs, when he felt his feet yanked out from under him, and was swinging from a rope that tied his legs to the chandelier.

  
“Damian! What is the meaning of this?” Bruce thundered.

  
Damian sulked into the room, munching a burnt Pop Tart. “You fell for the snare, father. I’m disappointed.”

  
Bruce felt a vein popping out on his forehead. “Why was there a snare on _my_ staircase?”

  
“To help you practice trap evasion and dexterity of course.”

  
Bruce doubled up, untied the knot and jumped down. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need practice when I’m getting ready for work.” At this rate he was going to be late, and as much as Bruce kept up his playboy image, he had an important meeting at nine-thirty.

  
“But father, if you never expect anything unexpected in the mornings, what will happen when Ninja Assassins kidnap you before breakfast?”

  
He ruffled Damian’s hair and grinned. “I’ll tell them to take you instead.”

  
Damian crossed his arms and scowled up at Bruce. Bruce decided since Damian hadn’t tried to murder him in his sleep yet, maybe he was making progress with his son.

  
Then he remembered that he was almost late for work and hurried into the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast?”

  
Dick looked up from the cloud of black smoke that was currently spewing forth from the oven. “We’re out of milk, eggs, and uh, pretty much everything else. So I made Pop Tarts.”

  
“And he burnt them too,” Damian said, sauntering into the kitchen and crunching on his crisp tart.

  
Bruce scratched his chin and looked at the giant mess. “I thought Alfred was going to leave some prepped meals.”

  
“He did, but Damian ate them all already,” Tim griped.

  
“Don’t blame me, Drake! You ate them too!”

  
“Just because I knew you’d eat them all unless I ate a few while I had the chance!”

  
“So that’s where all the food went,” Dick muttered and scowled.

  
“Stop arguing and just go grocery shopping.” Bruce picked up a blackened Death Tart on his way out the door. “How do you manage to burn Pop Tarts anyway?”

  
“Well, I had a lot of distractions,” Dick huffed.

  
"Don't blame us for your inattentiveness, Grayson."

  
"Shut up Damian." Tim threw a smoldering Pop Tart at him. "Why don't you stop whining and go practice, you definitely need it."

  
Damian turned up his nose. "Useless, you're all useless." He paused in thought. "Well, Grayson is at least tolerable some of the time. I told father he should have gotten rid of Drake, but he didn't listen."

  
Tim rolled his eyes. "All right, Your Highness, who are you going to royally command to go grocery shopping?"

  
Dick sighed and searched for the keys to one of the normal cars. It was going to be a long day.  
________________________________________

\--  
Bruce was late to work. Not that it mattered, really, he was the playboy CEO of Wayne Enterprises, he could probably come to work in his bathrobe and no one would care. Still, it made for good impressions to be punctual with business partners. Bruce groaned, straightened his tie, and hoped that Franklin Ross was a patient man.

  
He passed his secretary on the way down the hall. “Hey, Betty, is Mr. Ross waiting in the conference room?”

  
Betty stared at him for a moment. “Oh, Mr. Wayne, I guess you haven’t seen the news yet.”

  
“The news?”

  
“Yes, it’s all over Gotham. Mr. Ross was kidnapped by the Joker last night. Apparently Batman was busy somewhere else last night, and the Joker went unchallenged.

  
Bruce rubbed his head sheepishly. “I guess I should pay more attention to current events.”

  
Betty rounded the corner, and pointed to the conference room, where a television was turned on and a few employees were watching. “Here, it’s turned on in the conference room. The Joker is going to make another broadcast any minute.”

  
Bruce sat down, and felt a chill run down his spine as he heard the shrill, deranged cackling that only came from one person.

  
\--

  
Across town on the top of Gotham’s Giant Clock Tower, the Joker jumped up and down with glee as Harley secured Franklin Ross to the giant hour hand.

  
“How do you like this, Frankie?” The Joker asked as he twisted his mouth into a malicious parody of a smile. “You were always complaining about not having enough time, now you’ll have exactly two hours. Two hours until your explosive finale. How’s that for going out with a bang?”

  
“Enjoy the fresh air, Frankie,” Harley said, and stepped back to survey her handiwork. “Hey Mr. J, what if Frankie wants-”

  
“Shut up Harley, this is my plan!” He backhanded her. “And when Batman finally figures out the joke, the real joke, it’ll be too late. Those are the best jokes don’t you think? Ones that take you by surprise.”

  
“Of course, Mr. J,” Harley said shakily, and wiped the blood off the side of her mouth.

  
“Yes, Joker always knows best.” He winced and rubbed his temple. “ _He_ said I wouldn’t notice any difference with the infection. Well, I have a headache from Hades, I think that’s a difference. Harley! Where’s my painkiller you were supposed to bring me?”

  
Harley stood up and saluted. “Just a minute Mr. J, I’ll bring it right up.”

  
The Joker grumbled and paced as he waited. “You just can’t get good help these days, Frankie, can you?” He rubbed the side of his head again. “I swear I’m surrounded by lunatics. Even when I'm not in the asylum.” The he doubled over and began laughing hysterically.

  
Harley reappeared with a glass of water and a pill. “Here you go, Mr. J.”

  
The Joker gulped down the glass, then promptly spewed it back out. “Harley! What did you put in my water?”

  
“N-nothing, Mr. J.”

  
“How can it be nothing if I can’t drink it? Wait, that kind of makes sense.” The Joker seemed about to go off into hysterics again when noticed the beeping red light on the camera. “Never mind that, look at the camera, we’re about to go live, Frankie.”

  
\--

  
Bruce watched as static filled the TV, then it cut to a scene of the Joker’s giant grinning face. Red lips pulled back from yellowed teeth.

  
“Batman, as you can see (and I hope you’re watching this, you lazy superhero), I’m here at the clock tower with our mutual friend Frankie. Well, actually he’s not your friend yet since you decided to stand me up last night. Can you believe it? Me, the Joker, with a brilliantly funny and fiendishly devious plot, passed up for some plant bimbo-”

  
“I think Ivy’s fun,” Harley piped in.

  
“No one cares what you think, Harley.” The Joker’s face turned into a paroxysm of rage. “It’s Frankie’s big day on TV, his fifteen minutes of fame, and here you are trying to make it all about you. Well if that’s the way you want it.” The Joker paused then deliberately kicked Harley off the side of the building.

  
“As I was saying, Batsy, before we were so rudely interrupted, you have until our friend Frankie here moves up to the twelve. Then he’s going to make an explosive impact on the city.” The Joker laughed hysterically and the video feed cut out.


	4. Cereal Wars

Meanwhile in another part of town, Dick Grayson was braving the weekly ritual known as going to the grocery story with two children. Two screaming, argumentative children, who fought like they were years younger to be precise, and who unfortunately had the vocal chords and lung capacity of teenagers.

Damian loudly decided that he needed to go grocery shopping in order to ensure that plebeians like Grayson and Drake purchased sufficient quantities of chocolate milk.

"No matter how much we buy, it won't be enough because Dami will hog it all," Tim griped.

"That's enough, we're not even at the grocery store yet." Dick turned to both of them. "Bruce gave me his credit card, so you can buy as much food as you want. And if we run out of food we can make another trip and get more."

"When I lived with mother, the servants would always bring us quality food. There was never any of this "vacation" nonsense. I thought father was a billionaire, and yet I was forced to endure burnt Pop Tarts for breakfast this morning."

"Well, you live in America now, get used to it," Tim shot back.

"That might be okay for an uncultured bore like yourself, Drake, but I require-"

Tim cut off Damian's reply with an uppercut to the jaw. Then they started exchanging blows and Dick sighed. Bringing Damian along always had the potential to be a double-edged sword. On one hand, if left at home, there was no telling what kind of mayhem he could cause. On the other hand, he was certain to be difficult in the store, especially since he currently had his own sword strapped to his back. His katana was a single edged sword though. Not that it made much of a difference; it was still very sharp.

Dick turned up the music and ignored the threats and scuffling from the backseat until he pulled up at the grocery store. Damian looked like he had gotten into a fight with a leaf-blower, and Tim looked like he had been dragged behind the car inside of sitting inside it. Dick sighed, at least there wasn't any permanent damage. Then he pointed at Damian's katana, haphazardly hanging from his back. "You have to leave your sword in the car, Dami."

"Drake was just telling me that I need to adjust to this culture, therefore I will start by bringing a weapon with me to a grocery store in order to protect myself."

"But Damian, the other customers are civilians. You shouldn't bring a weapon, you might scare them."

"Don't be ridiculous. Grayson. People open carry assault rifles in grocery stores all the time. I saw it on the news."

Dick rubbed his forehead, and wondered if there was any way to explain. Probably not, and with how stubborn Damian could be, it was better just to humor him. _Hopefully people will think the sword is fake_ , Dick thought.

\--

Tim and Damian raced to the cereal aisle, tripping each other on the way there. Dick rolled his eyes and started filling the cart with veggies and other healthy food. He hurried through the meat section when he heard crashing and screaming from the other side of the store.

The cereal aisle was a warzone of scattered and smashed boxes. Or at least, it'd be what a warzone would look like if Captain Crunch ever declared war on Count Chocula. Tim and Damian had created separate forts with the cereal boxes and were currently throwing cartons of chocolate milk at each other. Sometimes they missed and knocked more cereal boxes off the shelves.

Dick wanted to facepalm forever and curse Bruce for leaving him to deal with the two hellions.

"Just pile your stuff in the cart and let's go," Dick grit. Maybe later he could ask Bruce to give whatever unfortunate employees who happened to be working today an anonymous "clean-up" donation.

While they were waiting in the checkout line, Damian kicked at Tim's feet until Tim had enough and started kicking back. Then Damian drew his katana and started chasing Tim all around the store.

"Oh, are you taking your younger brothers shopping?" Edith the cashier asked while scanning Dick's produce.

"Yes," Dick answered and wished he could disappear into the Batcave. Fighting supervillains was a piece of cake compared to taking Tim and Damian out in public.

Edith chuckled as she scanned a smashed cereal box. "Young boys are so energetic. My nephew is like that now; he loves swords, everything is King Arthur and his knights or Batman and Robin." She scanned a milk carton that looked like it had been restyled to resemble an accordion.

Dick laughed nervously. "Yes of course. Dami has a plastic sword." He winced as he heard more crashing from the direction of the canned food display. "And I couldn't convince him to part with it to go shopping."

"Jimmy is exactly the same," Edith laughed.

Dick continued to laugh nervously and wished the day would end.

Dick paid for the groceries, gathered the two hellions known as Tim and Damian, and stuffed them all in the car.

\--

Then they grumpily arrived home. Damian and Tim had a contest as to who could unload the groceries faster, and ended up putting the entire bags in the refrigerator, unpacked.

Dick facepalmed. And decided he was tired of dealing with Tim and Damian's shenanigans. Let them live with the mess if that's the way they wanted it.

Then he checked his text messages. "Hey you two, suit up, Bruce might need back-up against the Joker."

All fighting was suspended as Damian and Tim rushed to get ready.

\--

In the meantime, Batman had finally arrived at the Clock Tower and dramatically landed on the ledge with a heroic flourish of his cape.

"Batsy, you came!" The joker giggled and clapped his hands. "And here I was thinking you didn't care anymore." He turned and folded his arms. "Don't think I've forgiven you for last night though." Then he glanced to look up at Franklin Ross, who was rapidly approaching the twelve. "Tell him Frankie. Tell him how I prepared everything perfectly, just for him, and then I was stood up." The Joker gritted his teeth and began to pace. "Five hours. That how long I waited and no Bats."

"Joker, stop this nonsense," Batman said gruffly. "What do you want?"

"Hmmm." The Joker tapped his foot and pursed his lips. "What do I want? That's an excellent question Batsy. Can't tell you; it'll ruin the joke!"

"Fine. If you have no demands, then I'll just handcuff you and take you back to Arkham."

"Ooh, I love a man of action, don't you, Frankie?"

Batman had no comment and roughly grabbed the Joker. But before he could Batcuff him, the Joker turned and sunk his yellowed teeth into his arm, drawing blood. "Ah!" Batman yelled, as he recoiled, putting pressure on the wound.

"And that's the joke!" the Joker screeched as he jumped away. "Oh you won't get it right away, but just wait, in a few days you'll see. You'll see how you're just as depraved and shortsighted and MAD as me! Or at least, you'll be the same, you'll just be able to see it better!" Still cackling, the Joker jumped into a nearby helicopter that one of his minions had brought.


	5. Adventures in Housekeeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still don't own anything Batman related.
> 
> A/N: Thanks for reading!
> 
> .
> 
> .

"Hey, where's Bruce?" Tim asked. "It's almost time to go on the nightly patrol, and I haven't seen him."

Bruce had taken the rest of the day off, and was apparently still napping after his fiasco with the Joker. Dick had managed to stitch up his arm, but it just wasn't the same without Alfred around. It had taken ten minutes to find all the necessary medical supplies, and when he had finished, the stiches looked gory and uneven. (Of course Bruce fidgeting the whole time hadn't helped matters.) He had gruffly assured Dick that the stitches were 'perfect' and he felt fine. Dick didn't believe either statement.

Dick ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Sure he always appreciated everything that Alfred did, but it wasn't until the man was gone that he truly realized just how much the butler did on a regular basis. Not the least of which was keeping Bruce in line.

"Maybe we should let him rest," Dick suggested. Truthfully, he was slightly surprised Bruce was still asleep. He'd half-expected Batman to be stubbornly dragging himself to the Batcave by now. Dick hoped Bruce wasn't more injured than he had let on.

Tim, Dick, and Damian went down to the Batcave to suit up. It was then that they discovered that laundry doesn't do itself. At least not when Alfred wasn't around. Piles of discarded outfits and clothing lay in a haphazard pile near the laundry room.

"This is disgusting," sniffed Damian. "My outfit smells like raw sewage, and the spare is dirty as well."

"I, uh, guess we'll have to wash them?" Dick suggested.

Dick went to find some laundry detergent as Tim and Damian squabbled over how to load the washing machine.

"Damian, I'm pretty sure you can't stuff everything in at once. You have to separate out different colors and fabric types," Tim said, while beginning to sort through the gigantic mess.

"We don't have time for foolishness, Drake. Obviously the most efficient way to wash things is all at once so we can leave at a reasonable hour for patrol," Damian said while scooping and handfuls of clothing and stuffing them into the washing machine.

"Well, yeah, but- hey! What are you doing with my underwear?" Tim screeched.

Dick sighed again. It would be a long evening, and it was looking like they would be needing a new wardrobe very soon.

-o-

The washing machine made many strange thunking noises that they all agreed it had never made when Alfred was around.

"Hey, uh, are our uniforms supposed to look…shredded?"

Nightwing looked down into the washing machine and facepalmed. "Guys, don't tell me someone forgot to take the batarangs out of their uniform before putting it in the washing machine."

Tim gingerly picked up a corner of his suit. "Looks like that's what happened." He surveyed the shredded shirt and pants. The strong Kevlar suits were in tatters, and the washing machine had giant dents and gashes that were sure to give Alfred a heart attack when he returned. The batarangs were on the bottom of the machine, dulled and chipped from the destruction they had caused.

Nightwing picked up his costume, which was now, black, blue and holey. "Maybe we could sell them online as sexy Halloween costumes," he joked.

Tim stared glumly at the shredded uniforms. "Bruce is going to throw a fit."

"Nonsense. Father can easily afford more clothes."

"Alfred is going to throw a fit," Tim amended with a glance at the dented machine.

"Pennyworth's reaction is no concern of mine."

Tim rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you'll change your mind when he makes you scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush.

Damian folded his arms and glared at Tim. "Ha! I'd like to see him try."

Dick facepalmed again. "Guys, please don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Tim and Damian glared daggers at each other back and forth, until Tim glanced away and Damian smirked victoriously.

"I think this is a sign," said Tim, gesturing towards the ruined machine and shredded uniforms. "A sign that we should all sit on the couch, eat pizza, and play video games until Alfred comes back. The house might be a mess, but we'll all be in one piece."

Dick looked at the washing machine of destruction and sighed. "I think you might have a point."

"Very well, Drake. I look forward to defeating you at video games."

-o-

When Bruce woke up it was already dark outside. His arm hurt, his head throbbed, and his throat felt dry. Maybe if I eat something I'll feel better.

The kitchen was full of junk food, and Tim and Damian lounged around with their feet on the table. They had one of the televisions set up at the end of the table, and were currently trying to beat the crap out of each other virtually with Metal Combat III: The Age of Swords.

Dick was attempting to make spaghetti and meatballs. The meatballs smelled burnt, and the spaghetti was so overcooked it was starting to emerge from the pot and slide onto the stovetop.

"Why aren't you out on patrol?" Bruce rasped.

"We thought about it," said Tim. "But then we decided it's too dangerous without Alfred. So we're just going to have our own vacation until he gets back." Tim glanced over at the stove. "And I think Dick is trying to summon the flying spaghetti monster."

"Hey, that's not funny," Dick complained, finally checking on his culinary monstrosity.

"What? If you cook those noodles any longer, Cthulhu is going to emerge fully formed from that pot."

Dick scowled slightly, and drained the spaghetti into the sink.

Bruce stared at the scene dumbfounded. He still felt dizzy and weak. Was he hallucinating? "So you're all just going to stay home and play video games?" he asked incredulously.

"Drake ruined my clothes, father," Damian whined. "All of my uniforms are torn, and I can't be seen in public until you buy me new ones."

"Hey, don't blame me," Tim countered while impaling Damian's character on screen. "You're the one who crammed everything into the washer."

Bruce rubbed his face. His stomach heaved and he could feel another headache coming on. Forget about food. Maybe it was better to leave Tim and Damian behind at the mansion. "I'll be leaving on my own then," Bruce said gruffly and stomped towards the Batcave.

Dick looked up concerned. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, Bruce?" He set the spaghetti back on the stove and started after Bruce.

"Grayson! You're just going to leave dinner in the sink?" Damian demanded. "What scandalous behavior!"

"Have Tim serve you," Dick shot back.

There were scuffles and shouts and fighting from the kitchen. At Bruce's last glance back, it appeared Damian was making Tim's vision of spaghetti monsters come true as he emptied the entire pot over the other boy's head.

-o-

Dick watched disapprovingly as Bruce made his way into the Batcave. He could barely walk straight, there was no way he was in any shape to go out on patrol. Dick wished for the fifteenth time that day that Alfred was around. The butler would know what to say in this situation.

"Bruce," Dick began as Bruce stubbornly opened the door to the Batmobile. "You don't look well. Maybe you should rest instead of patrol."

And indeed he didn't look well. Bruce was pale, and his hands shook as he steadied himself against the car. "I'm fine, Dick," he grit out. "Why don't you watch Tim and Damian tonight?"

Dick felt anger building in his chest at Bruce's dismissal of him. Bruce always had to be stubborn and overprotective and shut him out. "You're not fine," Dick replied, noticing blood dripping from Bruce's arm. "You've torn your stitches, and if Alfred was here, he'd make you stay home."

Bruce glared at him, something dangerous glittering in the depths of his eyes. "Don't tell me what to do," he growled.

Dick suppressed a shiver and glared back. "Someone has to. You're so stubborn you would have killed yourself years ago if it hadn't been for Alfred."

"Oh?" Bruce clenched his fist and banged it on the roof of the Batmobile. "And whose fault is that? Who's even more stubborn than me and need to be rescued all the time?"

Dick felt his face grow hot. "That's not fair! I was younger then." A part of him thought that this wasn't like Bruce, that something was wrong, but he was too angry to care. He found a roll of gauze and hurled it at Bruce. "At least take care of yourself if you won't let anyone else help you." Then Dick turned before Bruce could see how hurt he was and stomped out of the cave.

-o-

Bruce winced at Dick's dramatic exit. Quickly finding the pile of cleaned uniforms, he pulled his Batsuit out. He knew what he had to do, and Bruce pulled on his uniform, hardly noticing the rips and tears, and headed outside, into the night.


	6. Zombie Batman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to Soft-falling-Raindrops for drawing awesome fanart for this fic!:  
> You can see it here:
> 
> http://softfallingraindrops.deviantart.com/art/Image-1-1-534272415  
> http://softfallingraindrops.deviantart.com/art/Lego-On-The-Stairs-534272919  
> http://softfallingraindrops.deviantart.com/art/Vine-Control-534273526  
>  
> 
> And thanks to everyone else for reading!
> 
> And lol, I might have read too much Dracula recently which might have influenced this chapter.
> 
> Also, I hope you like terrible poetry!

.

.

Dick sighed as he took out the trash. Taking out the trash at the mansion was a monumental task that made him glad he lifted weights on a regular basis. He knew he couldn't even hope to clean up as well as Alfred did, but at least he could try to make the place less of a disaster zone before the butler returned.

Speaking of disaster zones, Tim and Damian had invited Jason and Cassandra over last night, which had resulted in loud music and shouting until 3 am, and a pile of passed out superheroes currently sleeping in the living room.

"Hey, get up," Dick said as he kicked Tim and Damian's feet. The boys had passed out on the couch amid piles of candy wrappers, empty chip bags, action figures, and game controllers. Cassandra was curled up in an armchair, and Jason was sprawled out on the floor, snoring.

Dick "accidentally" tripped over Jason's legs as he walked over to wake Cassandra up.

"$%^*!" said Jason.

Cassandra glared at Jason. "Jason, stop setting such a bad example for your brothers."

Damian sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Grayson, what is the meaning of this?"

"If Bruce isn't up, why're you getting us up?" Tim asked with a yawn.

"Because the four of you made a giant mess last night, and I think you should clean it up before Bruce wakes up and has a conniption." He frowned at the memory of Bruce's mood last night. "I don't think he's feeling well."

.

.

It was late afternoon when Dick decided to check on Bruce. He hadn't seen the man since last night, and as much as it seemed a good idea to let Bruce sleep off his bad mood, twelve hours was more than enough sleep, and Dick felt a need to check on him to make sure he was okay, and that his arm wasn't still bleeding.

The room was dark and smelled stuffy. There was a Batman-shaped lump in the middle of the bed, and it looked like Bruce hadn't even bothered to change out of his uniform before crashing into bed last night.

Dick frowned and opened the curtains to allow early evening sunlight to stream into the room.

"Mph." The lump on the bed shifted.

"Bruce, is your arm feeling better?" Dick pulled back the covers and almost gasped at how pale Bruce appeared. He jumped back when Bruce snarled and yanked the covers back around his head.

Bruce could often be difficult when he wanted his Batman's sleep, but this was bordering on ridiculous. "Bruce, it's almost time for patrol again. Just let me check your arm to make sure it's not infected."

The only answer was a growling and coughing noise from underneath the covers. Dick reached under the covers again, this time intent on grabbing Bruce's arm so he could have a look at it. Bruce was having none of this, and held the covers clamped tightly down with his bat-gloved fists.

After five minutes of struggle, Dick jumped back and yelped, clutching his own arm. "Ouch, hey, you bit me!" Wounded in more ways than one, Dick left the room to tend to his own cut.

Later that evening, after the sun set, no-one noticed as a black-clad Batman-shaped figure stealthily crept out of the mansion and into the night…

.

.

.

.

In Gotham where it's dark and bleak,

And the wind howls through scraggly trees,

Near an old abandoned manor with pointed steeples,

Under labyrinths of twisting caves,

Dwells (so the legends say),

The most fearsome creature to ever walk littered streets.

.

They say he came, swift as night,

With reddened eyes and pointed teeth,

Descending from the pitch black skies,

To rip and rend flesh left and right.

.

Smoke he exhaled, as from a train,

And tattered wings flapped like a bat,

As he soared over Gotham,

Leaving as silently as he came,

But they knew he'd be back again.

.

Oh horrid creature! Cursed blight!

To come garbed in semblance of the Knight,

That so often responded to Gotham's plight.

.

But the Dark Knight was silent,

And walked the streets no more;

Leaving in his place, a zombie "batman",

With gnashing teeth and fearsome eyes,

To plague the City at night.


	7. Alfred Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Thanks for reading!

.

Alfred was waiting in the airport when he saw the news:

 **Zombie Apocalypse in Gotham** , screamed the headline. Below was a grainy photograph of panicked citizens running in the street. Alfred sighed, picked up the newspaper and began reading.

.

In recent days there's been an outbreak of an attenuated strain of the rabies virus in Gotham. The virus was under development in a LuthorCorp Lab as an improved version of the rabies vaccine, before somehow escaping from a high security BSL- 2 laboratory and essentially being released to the public. Although not much is known about the virus, it is thought to be non-lethal, with some rabies-like symptoms.

The symptoms include dizziness, nausea, disorientation, partial paralysis, including paralysis of the throat muscles, and increased aggression.

There have been no signs of Batman during this crisis, though some have claimed to have seen a winged "zombie Batman" instead. Could it be true that the caped crusader actually succumbed to a viral infection during Gotham's time of greatest need? Only time will tell.

In the meantime, as an extraordinary show of humanitarianism, LuthorCorp is offering the "zombie" antidote at half-price to anyone who can prove they are infected.

.

Alfred rolled his eyes and folded up the newspaper. "So much for journalistic integrity," he muttered. "However, I suppose a trip to LuthorCorp is in order before returning to the mansion. One can never be too prepared."

.  
-  
.

Alfred came home to a mansion full of trash, and wild-eyed rabid zombie Batman. And zombie Nightwing.

"I see you had an eventful time while I was away, Master Bruce," Alfred said, while sighing and taking the zombie antidotes out of his bag.

.  
-  
.

When Bruce woke up, the first thing he noticed was that his throat hurt terribly, and he had a pounding headache.

"Ugh," Bruce groaned as he sat up in bed and nearly fell out as a wave of dizziness hit.

"Master Bruce, please lie down until you've recovered fully," Alfred said while carrying a tea tray into the room.

Bruce almost fell out of the bed again in surprise. "Alfred, you're back?" he asked, and his jaw dropped open.

"Astute as always," Alfred remarked as he set down the tea tray on the nightstand next to the bed.

Bruce frowned. "The last I remember, you were on vacation, and I had to fight the Joker." Bruce glanced down at his arm and noticed it was still bandaged up, but it looked as if it had been re-bandaged. "And then…" Bruce couldn't remember much, but he vaguely remembered fighting with Dick, being in a lot of pain, having to go on patrol, and fight the Joker again… "What's going on in Gotham? Alfred I think there's something wrong with everyone; and I think I might have bit Dick, and uh-"

Alfred gave him what he used to call the "Alfred Knows Best" eye. "Calm down, Master Bruce. Richard is asleep in his room. He may be a little worse for wear, but he'll be fine. As will the city." Alfred placed the cup of tea into Bruce's hands. "Now drink."

Bruce took a sip of the tea and made a face. He hated chamomile. "What was wrong with everyone?"

"Oh nothing much. Just a Zombie Apocalypse plague manufactured by LuthorCorp. But they were kind enough to provide the vaccine for a price, so it all worked out quite nicely," Alfred deadpanned.

"What?" Bruce asked eloquently.

"Well, it looks as if you're recovering nicely. I'll go check on Master Richard next."

Bruce groggily remembered he had other batkids to worry about. Hopefully the hellions had managed to avoid the zombie apocalypse with all their video game playing. "Wait, Alfred, where are Tim and Damian?"

"Oh they had a fine time partying in the manor, don't you worry." Alfred's eyes seemed to twinkle. "And now they're having a fine time now cleaning up the mess they caused while I was away."

Bruce sunk back into the bed. All was well, or almost well, now that Alfred had returned. For now. Bruce suddenly had a horrible gut-wrenching thought that Alfred might have enjoyed his vacation enough to want to take one every year. "Alfred, are you going on vacation next year?" Bruce asked, with only a slight edge of panic in his voice.

"And come home to a giant catastrophe again? I think not."

Bruce sighed with contentment. "Alfred, I'll give you a raise every year if you don't take a vacation."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Very good, sir."


End file.
